The Abattoir of Dreams: a stunning psychological thriller

by Mark Tilbury

  I walked over to the bedside table. I took the pen off the Bible and placed it by the glass. Then, I picked up the Bible and held it close to my chest. I sat back down on the bed and sobbed like a baby until Paul returned home from running his errands.

  Chapter Thirty-Nine

  Paul allowed me to stay inside the house. He didn’t pressurise me into going out and doing anything. We had a lovely fish and chip supper on Friday night. He found me five T-shirts, two pairs of jeans, Levis if you can believe that, two pairs of trainers, both Adidas, a zip-up top, and a lined blue coat. He also went into town and bought me five pairs of socks and ten pairs of pants to go with my haul. I felt like royalty.

  We ate cheese and tomato sandwiches for lunch early on Saturday afternoon. I had a glass of milk to wash it down with. By now, I felt almost human again. Paul had also trimmed my hair, after I flat refused his offer to pay for a proper cut at the barber’s. I didn’t want anyone seeing me and spoiling what I had.

  ‘How would you feel about meeting someone?’

  I looked at Paul as if he’d just suggested a visit to Woodside. ‘I don’t want to. I’m not ready to meet anyone.’

  He smiled and tugged on the end of his bulbous red nose. ‘This isn’t just anyone. It’s Becky.’

  A girl? Even worse. I looked like Friar Tuck with my terrible haircut, and I had a spot on my chin. And I didn’t have the first idea about girls. ‘No, I don’t—’

  ‘She won’t bite.’

  I looked away. A blush crept up my neck.

  ‘She was in the same position as you two years ago. Didn’t have nowhere to go. Hardly dared to look anyone in the eye.’

  ‘I don’t want to meet anyone.’

  Paul put his plate on the coffee table. ‘You can’t hide away forever, Michael.’

  ‘I’m not hiding.’

  ‘Becky helps me make sandwiches for the homeless. People donate cakes and crisps and stuff like that. We’ve got a collection box at the church, and we take them out every Saturday evening and drop them off with a guy called Finn. He sorts out who gets what. Acts as if it’s a massive chore, but you can tell he enjoys bossing everyone about. Makes him feel as if he’s doing something worthwhile. Which he is.’

  ‘I don’t want to go anywhere near Oxford.’

  He sighed. ‘Okay. I understand. But, at least say hello to Becky.’

  I finished my milk and wiped away a creamy moustache. ‘I’ll think about it.’

  Too late for that. The back door opened, and a girl’s voice called, ‘Hiya, Paul. We’ve got a jam sponge from Ida Carnegie. She says it’s for you, not the handouts. Said she made it especially.’

  Paul walked through to the kitchen. ‘That’s very thoughtful of her.’

  ‘And John Westwood left a whole box of crisps. Said they’ve gone out of date, so he can’t sell them on the market. He didn’t want them to go to waste.’

  My heart pounded in my chest. I wanted to run upstairs and lock myself in the bathroom.

  ‘Wow. What a haul. Should keep them going for a while.’

  ‘There’s nine packets of biscuits as well. Lemon puffs and all sorts.’

  To my horror, Paul said, ‘Michael? Come on through, and meet Becky.’

  For a moment, I considered legging it out the front door.

  ‘Michael?’

  I stood up and told myself it was only a girl; she was hardly going to bare her teeth and bite my head off, was she? And she was a friend of Paul’s.

  ‘Michael?’

  I stood in the kitchen doorway, looking at the most beautiful girl I’d ever seen in my life. Her long blonde hair was fixed on top of her head with a bright red headband. Her blue eyes shone in the morning sunlight. She wore a white T-shirt with Save the Dolphins emblazoned across the front in purple writing.

  She smiled, revealing a row of neat white teeth. One of the top ones jutted out slightly from the rest. ‘I’m Becky.’

  My heart caught the words. ‘Hello.’

  Her smile seemed to tease me. ‘How are you settling in?’

  Time stood still. It was as if no one else existed. ‘All right.’ Jesus Christ, is that the best you can do? The kitchen felt ten degrees hotter.

  ‘I’ve got to go out,’ Paul said. ‘Can I leave you two to get on with it?’

  I looked at the floor and shrugged.

  Becky asked, ‘Shall I make a start on the sandwiches?’

  ‘That would be great. There’s a bottle of lemonade in the fridge. Help yourself.’

  And, with that, he left. Now what? I had no experience of girls, other than seeing them in the playground at school, clumped together in groups. A giggle of girls. Little aliens, whispering to one another in their own secret language.

  Becky took a sliced loaf out of the bread bin. ‘Do you want to butter, or cut the cheese?’

  ‘I don’t mind.’ My throat was as dry as a sandpit.

  ‘Okay. I’ll butter, you cut the cheese. Cut it thin, though, we’ve got fifty to make, and there’s only one block of cheese.’

  I nodded. Now struck mute, apparently.

  Becky laughed. ‘Paul expects us to make things stretch as far as Jesus did with the five loaves of bread and two fish.’

  I smiled.

  ‘You have got a sense of humour, then?’

  ‘Maybe.’ We set about cutting the sandwiches. Becky wrapped them in foil and wedged them into the overstuffed fridge. When we were finished, she took the lemonade out, and plonked it on the side. ‘Would you like some?’

  ‘Yes, please.’

  She took two glasses from a cupboard and poured our drinks. ‘Why don’t we sit in the front room. You can tell me all about yourself.’

  Until this moment, I was only vaguely aware of the term love at first sight. I had no idea whether such a thing actually existed. How could you love someone if you didn’t even know them? But now I understood; the proof was sitting in Father Paul’s armchair opposite me.

  She took a sip of lemonade. ‘How did you meet Paul?’

  ‘I was sleeping at the back of the church.’

  ‘That’s a funny place to sleep.’

  I could think of a few words to describe it; funny wasn’t one of them ‘Yeah.’

  ‘I couldn’t do that. The graves would creep me out too much.’

  Graves were the least of my worries after Woodside. Apart from ending up in one, of course.

  ‘Paul told me you were living here.’ And then, quicker, ‘But, he said nothing else about you. He’s not like that. He’s straight down the line. If you tell him something, it stays with him.’

  I felt comforted by that.

  ‘Do you want to talk?’

  My heart did. But, my head told me to keep it to myself. ‘Not really.’

  ‘It’s hard, isn’t it?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Talking.’

  ‘I suppose.’

  ‘Where are you from?’ And then, quickly, ‘I won’t say a word to anyone, Michael. Me and Paul don’t let outsiders in.’

  ‘I’m from Oxford.’

  ‘Nice place.’

  Not the parts I’d seen, but I agreed anyway.

  ‘I love all the buildings. The architecture. The history.’

  You ought to go to Woodside. ‘Yeah.’

  ‘We go to Redcastle Square to hand out the food. Do you know it?’

  I didn’t. Other than school and Woodside, my experience of Oxford was pretty limited.

  She took another sip of lemonade and studied me with those clear blue eyes. ‘Things can get better, Michael. It just takes time.’

  I doubted that very much. My mother and my best friend had been murdered. No amount of time could ever mend that.

  We finished our drinks, and then Becky said, ‘How old are you, Michael?’

  ‘Nearly eighteen.’

  She smiled. My heart turned to wax and melted. ‘I’ve just had my eighteenth. Two weeks ago.’

  ‘Happy birthday.’

 
‘Thanks. Time flies when you’re having fun. It’s nearly two years since Paul rescued me.’

  ‘Rescued you?’

  She seemed thoughtful for a moment. ‘Yeah. Gave me my life back. Paul’s a good bloke. The best.’

  I had no argument with that. ‘I know.’

  ‘We’re all friends here, Michael. Friends forever. Even the ones who never come back send postcards and letters. No one ever forgets Paul. Are you planning on sticking around?’

  Woodside had taught me to take one day at a time. ‘I’m not sure.’

  ‘I ran away from home when I was fourteen. I couldn’t handle it anymore. I met Paul when he came to Oxford one night handing out food. He was dressed in a pair of old jeans and a big baggy black coat. I thought he was a tramp, but then, he started handing out sandwiches and crisps. I was starving. I only ever got proper food when I’d begged enough money to go to the chippy.’

  ‘Why did you run away from home?’

  Becky studied her hands for a moment. ‘Let’s just say, I didn’t get on with my stepdad. He was a bastard. He used to beat my mum up, and other stuff. I didn’t have much choice.’

  ‘That bad?’

  She nodded. ‘So, I ran away. Lived on the streets.’

  ‘That must have been really difficult for you.’

  ‘Tell me about it. I had to sharpen up my wits pretty quick. The winter was the worst. I could never get warm. The cold got right down inside me, down into my bones. Even when I cadged booze, it still made no difference. Paul told me alcohol lowers your body’s temperature anyway, so drinking to stay warm is a really dumb idea.’

  At least me and Liam had managed to light a fire in the derelict pub. I couldn’t imagine what it must have been like for her, sleeping outside in the winter.

  ‘I lost count of the number of men who propositioned me. Dirty sods, who didn’t seem to care I was only fourteen.’

  I knew that feeling well. ‘That must have been really scary.’

  ‘Worse than being at home, in some ways. So, when Paul came along that night, I was quite a hardened little bitch. After I’d figured out he wasn’t a tramp, because no self-respecting tramp would go around handing out food, I thought he was going to proposition me. But, he didn’t. He wasn’t like anyone else I’d ever met before. He was kind and honest; a rare thing in this world.’

  ‘I know what you mean.’

  ‘He asked me if I wanted cheese and pickle, or cheese and tomato. I mean, come on, who gives you a choice when you’re on the streets? Then, he told me not to take too long making up my mind, because he had to be home by midnight, or else he’d turn into a pumpkin. That made me laugh for the first time in ages. I took the cheese and pickle. And again, the next week, and the week after that. I reckon he brought me those same sandwiches for at least two months without fail. Just as winter kicked in, he asked me if I wanted to come home with him, and help out with the church. I didn’t take much persuading. I knew Paul was a decent bloke. I went home with him on the third of October. The best decision I’ve ever made. Stayed in that little box room upstairs.’

  ‘I know it well.’ It was like a palace after Woodside.

  ‘God’s special room.’

  Pretty good description. ‘Yeah.’

  ‘Paul got me on my feet. I got a job at the newsagent’s, and helped Paul out at the church. Early this year, I got promoted to manager at work, got myself a little flat above the bookmaker’s in town. It’s not much to look at, but it’s mine. My space. I get to choose who comes in there.’

  ‘Well done,’ I said, genuinely pleased for her.

  ‘You stick around, and you can do the same.’

  ‘I don’t know about that. I haven’t got any qualifications. I’m pretty useless.’

  ‘You’re not useless, Michael. Adults have a habit of making kids feel that way, but it’s up to you to prove them wrong, show them that your life’s worth something.’

  ‘Maybe.’

  ‘There’s no maybe about it. I’ll help you, if you want.’

  Why was everyone being so kind? I had a brief flashback to my mother holding my hand when I was about seven or eight, telling me I could be anything I wanted to be, that dreams can come true. I saw something of my mother in Becky’s eyes; it was something I would later come to recognise as belief. And with belief, even clipped wings can learn to fly.

  ‘Well?’

  ‘I’d like that.’

  She grinned. ‘Deal?’

  I was in love, and it made me feel as if I could walk on the ceiling. ‘Deal.’

  Chapter Forty

  I loved my year staying at Paul’s. He never made demands. He cared for me in a way I didn’t think possible, and proved that men weren’t all selfish, perverted pigs. He taught me, by his actions and his love, there were actually good people in the world.

  Although I still wasn’t convinced of the existence of God, I was coming around to the notion of something other than just life on Earth. If you put it into the context of lighting a fire, I’d gathered a few twigs and thought about finding a match.

  Although Paul was obviously serious about religion, he never asked me if I wanted to go to church or read from the Bible. I once asked him why God didn’t stop all the suffering in the world, all the wars, all the bad people doing terrible things. He told me it wasn’t up to God; it was up to us.

  He admitted questioning his own faith when he was a young man. Questioning the very boundaries set by the church. When I asked him why, he told me it was a delicate subject, complicated, perhaps one day. Sometime later, Becky told me that Paul was a homosexual. That he had to keep it hidden from the church. That I must never tell a soul. I would have rather died than betray Paul Brady’s trust.

  Summer Camp the following year was probably the best time of my life. We sang songs, ate food cooked over an open fire, and listened to Paul strumming his guitar. He blamed a sore throat on his tuneless singing!

  I met Charles Bronson, two lads who were just called the Twins, and a sixteen-year-old kid called Pete, who rarely spoke. He didn’t need to; his pain was written clearly enough in his eyes.

  On the final night, Paul said a prayer. It was a magic moment, sitting around the dying embers of the fire, listening to Paul giving thanks for one of the best weeks ever. Then, he asked the group if anyone wanted to say a prayer.

  Pete stared into the fire, poking the ground with a stick. The Twins had a minor disagreement about whether to say something for their dad.

  ‘What about you?’ Paul asked Charles Bronson.

  ‘Does it have to be a person?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘I want to say one for my dog.’

  One of the twins snickered. Paul silenced him. ‘That’s fine, Charles, we can say a prayer for your dog.’

  Charles sniffed. ‘My old man killed him. Took him down the knackers' yard at Gaskin’s Field and had him shot with the horses. He made out the dog had run away, but Jed Crippen said he saw my old man with the dog when they were hiding out in the scrap cars. Said Gaskin took my dog down to the shed where they slaughter the horses. Shot him. Burned him on a bonfire.’

  ‘That’s terrible,’ Becky said.

  Charles nodded. ‘He was a cunt... I mean, bastard. Sorry. I don’t mean to swear Paul, but he knew how much the dog meant to me. How much I loved him.’

  I remembered Oxo. Felt the kid’s pain.

  ‘What was his name?’ Paul asked.

  ‘Who, my old man?’

  One of the twins thought that was really funny. ‘No, your dog, numb nuts.’

  ‘I called him Patch. He had a white patch over one eye. Like a pirate.’

  ‘Pirates have black patches,’ Twin said. ‘Not white patches. That’s more like a surrender flag.’

  Paul held up a hand. ‘Okay. That’ll do. We’ll say a prayer for Patch.’ He then turned to me. ‘Michael?’

  ‘Can I say a prayer for Liam?’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘Who’s Liam?�
� Becky whispered.

  ‘A friend.’

  ‘Anyone else?’ Paul asked. ‘Pete?’

  Pete shook his head.

  ‘Becky?’

  ‘Just anyone who’s suffering.’

  Paul clasped his hands in front of him and prayed for Liam, Patch, and the twins’ father. He finished with words I’ll never forget. ‘Know that those we miss are always with us. In our hearts. Nothing can extinguish the gift of love; God’s greatest gift to us all.’

  Me and Becky stayed up long after the others had gone back to their tents. She looked so beautiful in the glow of the fire. She turned to me after a while, and asked, ‘Did Liam die?’

  I nodded.

  ‘Do you want to talk about it?’

  I didn’t. It was too complicated. If I told her the truth, I would have to tell her everything, and I wasn’t ready to do that.

  After a short silence, she asked, ‘Have you got any family?’

  ‘No. My dad murdered my mum. He’s in jail, and she’s in a cemetery somewhere in Oxford.’

  Becky gasped. ‘Oh, God, I’m so sorry.’

  ‘Don’t be. That useless bastard’s the one who ought to be sorry.’ I, then, told her the whole story, right up until I’d found her dead at the bottom of the stairs.

  We didn’t talk for a long time after I’d finished. Finally, she said, ‘That must have been so terrible for you.’

  ‘You could say that.’

  She reached out and pulled me close. I could smell her perfume, sweet and inviting. She stroked my hair softly; a tenderness I hadn’t felt since I was still young enough to let my mother do that.

  ‘Life’s never how it’s supposed to be, is it?’ she said. ‘When you’re little, you have all these dreams. I wanted to be a ballerina before my dad ran off with another woman. Before my mum moved that rapist in. What happened after your dad… did what he did?’

  I cleared my throat. ‘I got taken into care. Put in a children’s home.’

  ‘Is that where you ran away from?’

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘Did you meet Liam there?’

  I nodded.